


Badlands

by CassidyHartwick



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Broken Families, Broken Promises, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Violence, Family, Family Angst, basically it's a really fun and lighthearted time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 02:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassidyHartwick/pseuds/CassidyHartwick
Summary: I loved her. I loved her beyond words and rhyme and reason, and I could feel the sting of the wounds on her wrist as if they were my own. Because there were so many things that I could not do, that I hadn’t done, so many broken smiles and shattered promises that were all flooding back. And it was hard, it was too hard, to face the embodiment of everything that I could never be for her.





	1. Before

**_September 29th, 2016. Drumheller, AB, Canada. 411 Riverside Dr E._ **

 

What do you associate with home?

 

Home, for most, means safety. The final defense between you and the outside when it is most necessary, when reality becomes too great to bear on your shoulders alone. Kindness. The soft pitch of a mother’s croon, or the deep lilt of a father's speech, their words drifting past your consciousness in gentle harmony. Warmth. The arms of another wrapped around you, tender hands cupping your face or smoothing your hair as they assure you that all will be right. That you are loved.

 

Home was not the same for us. 

 

For us, home was insecurity and uncertainty. It was insensate and unrelent. The compassion of the typical happy house had been gutted, leaving but a hollow shell of apathetic residue. 

 

I sighed, resting my weight onto the street lamp behind me. Of course, best not consider what could have been. That didn’t matter now.

 

Instead I stared ahead, my gaze scanning the torn and twisted peaks towering in the distance. As dusk descended, hills of dusted tan shifted into a bleeding, luminescent crimson, and fragments of sun escaped the impending horizon to swim across the gulleys and buttes below. Pines flooded across the landscape, trailing across plateaus in lazily drawn streaks to cleave the linear bedding planes, and patches of shrubbery speckled the land in verdant clusters. A haze of ancient wisdom emulated from the bluffs of stone and shale, and the force of it was glorious - yet crushing. As if one were peering into the eyes of an old god, with the same power to seize the breath from your lungs. To make you feel inadequate for simply daring to look.

 

The hills slowly gave way to the urban sprawl surrounding me, the harsh brick of towering buildings a stark wall of adamant against the impending badlands. They pulsed against each other, the wails of the wrens and the rummaging of bison hooves an opponent to the cacophonous echoes seeping through the seams of the town. 

 

I glanced at my watch. Why was she taking so long?

 

I pushed myself off of the post, hazel tresses sweeping into my vision in the breeze, and pulled an oversized Flames hoodie taught around my shoulders in an attempt to ignore the bitter chill. I scrubbed the heel of my palm over my brow, tired, because it was getting darker, and I still waited. I hated that, the waiting. Because, in a world off it’s axis, where nothing is ever certain, never set in stone, it was difficult to be sure that the wait would end. That sundown would not draw into starfall, and that night would not sway into morning and she would never come. But she would come, she had to come. I had to keep believing that she would come. Because I’m not sure I could manage the aftermath if, one day, she didn’t.

 

Though, as if on cue, gentle footsteps echoed from the alley behind me.

 

I spun to see a petite figure approaching, the intricacies of her face and frame solidifying as she emerged from the haze and quivering shadows beyond the breadth of the streetlight’s pale glow. A woolen sweater hung from her narrow shoulders, worn ragged despite being patched and repatched too many times to count. Though most notable was the tutu below - a corybantic miscellany of kaleidoscopic ribbon and feathered tulle, embroidered with ragged strips of lace and clusters of plastic jewels. It was catastrophic, surely, but in the sanguine manner with which a child may compose a piece of art. I suppose that’s what it was.

 

Regardless, I smiled at it. Her.

 

Her chestnut ringlets bobbed as she pranced towards me, the clothing swinging harmoniously with her skip as a crooked grin spread across her face. 

 

“Rosie,” I sang, extending a palm towards her. She capered forwards, her skirt swaying in the breeze, to place her palm in mine. “You look positively  _ stunning _ .” I spun my hand above her head, twirling her round in an easy pirouette. Her light giggles chimed through the space between us, diffusing into the surrounding air, accented by soft snorts and quick breaths.

 

“How was school?” I ask, pulling her body into mine. The voluminous peaks of her curls barely reached the curve of my hips as she leaned into my stomach.

 

“Good,” she declared, voice muffled by the my sweatshirt. “It was good. We made paintings.” Her words were subtle yet certain, as if she were addressing a crowd.

 

“I bet your painting was stunning too,” I said, staring back to the sunset. “You’ll have to show me tomorrow. It’s getting a bit dark, though, so let’s head home.” I glanced down at her again, prepared to leave.

 

But she looked up at me, eyes fading. Her left hand strayed tenderly towards the opposing wrist.

 

I stopped, stepping away. Kneeling beside her.

 

I took her forearm in my hands, slowly rotating her palm to face the sky. The blush pink fabric of her sweater framed her wrist, pale paper skin veiling bones of glass. Children’s bones. They were so fragile, and so utterly breakable.

 

My fingers danced up her arm to push away the material, revealing a blazing splatter of indigo and ebony discolouration creeping up her wrist. The bruising trailed beyond, smearing and snaking across her arm, rippling beneath and pushing against her soft flesh. 

 

I stifled a shuddered inhale as understanding rattled through me. The sentiment took a moment to settle, like a smooth rock dipping to the base of a deep pool.

 

I loved her. I loved her beyond words and rhyme and reason, and I could feel the sting of the wounds on her wrist as if they were my own. Because there were so many things that I could not do, that I hadn’t done, so many broken smiles and shattered promises that were all flooding back. And it was hard, it was too hard, to face the embodiment of everything that I could never be for her.

 

“Hey, sweets,” I said, forcing my lips into a tight smile, forcing my gaze back to her eyes, forcing the tentativeness from my voice. “You know what - why don’t we go do something before we go back home? How about takeout - from Yavis? How does that sound?”

 

The glimmers of light returned to her eyes in bursts, her cheeks slowly reverting to their usual rosey hue. Her face was round, soft, kind, as she smiled.

 

I returned the grin, my fingers shaking.

  
  


Home was not the same for us. 


	2. During

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staggering down back alley pavement as the sun rises. Vomiting moonshine into unwashed kitchen sinks. Late nights with closed shutters and muffled sobs. One sided screaming matches. Burying your head between the pillows as if it might tune out the world. 
> 
> And it might, sometimes, for a while. But then the fragments of despondency that have lodged themselves deeper, clung onto the innards of your mind and your heart and your soul, begin to stir. And maybe the shouting is better than the residue it has left behind.

**_October 14th, 2016. Drumheller, AB, Canada. 40 Willow Point._ **

 

My father is not a bad man.

 

He, like many others, was simply the victim of a less-than-favorable situation. Two years ago, when the layoffs began, he was among the first to go. Low level. Maintenance. Underqualified. Unnecessary. It was staggering, certainly, but not shocking. 

 

Following, his hand turned to the bottle almost reflexively.

 

Staggering down back alley pavement as the sun rises. Vomiting moonshine into unwashed  kitchen sinks. Late nights with closed shutters and muffled sobs. One sided screaming matches. Burying your head between the pillows as if it might tune out the world. 

 

And it might, sometimes, for a while. But then the fragments of despondency that have lodged themselves deeper, clung onto the innards of your mind and your heart and your soul, begin to stir. And maybe the shouting is better than the residue it has left behind.

 

But my father is not a bad man.

 

Was not a bad man.

 

Accordingly, as I had initially approached the house, all had seemed unremarkable. It was only once I placed a hand on the doorknob that I heard the yelling from within.

 

“...and you don’t do anything. I haven’t seen you lift a fucking finger since the day you were born! You expect me to do everything for you, really. And I do! I do everything for you, kid, and I get fuck-all back.”

 

_ No. _

 

I pushed through the door with undue force, the hinges screaming as the knob cracked in contact with the wall. He wheeled towards me at the commotion, confusion shaking into anger as his focus turned to me.

 

_ Stop. _

 

The light of a table lamp cast a dim glow over the compact room. He stood directly before me, tall stature and barrel chest heaving as his fingers curled around a Molson. His hands shook.

 

To my left sat a chintz couch, the pillows having teetered out of position and onto the stained tile floors. The side table hosted a small battalion of drained bottles, strewn and toppled across it’s surface.

 

To my right sat the kitchenette, composed of but a copper sink, infinitesimal countertop, and a dilapidated fridge that may have once been white. An antique Quaker chair had been thrown against the cupboard, and it’s shattered remains laid on the floor next to - 

 

I breathed. Rosie.

 

She sat with her back thrust against the refrigerator, knees pulled tight into her chest, her eyes squeezed shut. Inky shadows coated the hollows of her face, the dips of her eyes, defining and highlighting the space that I could not fill. Her knuckles bleached around a shredded teddy bear in her right hand and an emptied box of takeout in her left. Her tutu balled around her waist, the ribbons and fabric crumpling beneath her.

 

I breathed.

 

I remember the days before. Bringing packed lunches to the park, sitting on the swingset and begging to be pushed higher,  _ higher. _ Playing tag in the living room, asking him to join in. Tip-toeing into his room when the monsters under the bed became too much to bear, to find solace in his arms.

 

_ ‘Best not consider what could have been. That didn’t matter now.’ _

 

“Have you been drinking?” I asked, forcing the words from my throat, my hands shaking so my voice wouldn’t have to.

 

“What’s it to you?” he snapped, flailing his arms towards me.

 

I flexed and curled my fingers at my sides, desperately containing the instinct to flee.  “Please, Dad, just calm down.” 

 

He scoffed, shifting towards me. “You’re even worse! You don’t do shit, and then you go mouthing off tellin’ - telling  _ me _ what  _ I _ need to be doing.”

 

“Here, just,” I sputtered.  _ Hold his attention, hold his attention. Don’t let him.  _ “Just, listen to me-”

 

“Do you never shut the fuck up?” he screamed, callused knuckles gripping his beer. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want. I’m the one paying the bills around here, and you’re my kids. You’ll listen to  _ me _ if it’s the last Goddamn thing I do.”

 

He pivoted towards the kitchen. I stepped forwards again, my muscles stiff in resistance to the motion. Butterflies clawed up my airway, pointed wings piercing soft tissue. I couldn't think I couldn’t move I couldn’t  _ breathe _ \- 

 

“ _ Dad _ ,” I choked out, racing to form words that would not come. 

 

“You! I’m talking to you too,” he roared, thrusting the fist he clasped around the bottleneck towards the refrigerator. Eyes landing on Rosie. “Look at me.”

 

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

 

My heart whirred and steamed and quivered inside my chest, threatening to split through my ribs and skin tear itself  _ apart _ -

 

It reached towards her, my hands reached towards her - 

 

“Look at me!” he bellowed, thundering voice tearing through the floorboards. He drew back his arm, the Molson bottle flying from his hand - 

 

I stepped forward - 

 

“ _ Dad- _ ”

 

_ Good man -  _

_ Ballet skirt -  _

_ Look at me - _

 

Too late.

 

The glass arced through the air, shattering on the countertop. Shards shot into the surrounding air, keen fragments piercing the floor and sweeping clean lines across the skin of the shaking body below. Blood dripped from Rosie’s forehead, turning her cheeks from their usual rosey hue into an alarmingly potent shade of scarlet. Green splinters protruded from her legs and arms, and murky pools of beer gathered in the crevices of her tutu.

 

She did not scream. I did.

 

Temper cracked through my spine, pure visceral shooting through my veins. Not a paralytic, but a drug. Something broke deep inside me, in a way that I did not know I could be broken. Like shattered clockwork, whirling and ticking out of rhythm with the system.

 

A string of noises ripped from my throat. Stentorian. Carnivorous. Guttural.

 

I didn’t care.

 

My chest rose and fell in uneven, heaving bursts as I rushed towards the kitchenette. 

 

I would be there. I loved her. I loved her, I loved her, I  _ loved her _ , and would  _ be there _ .

 

I wouldn’t let her be hurt. Not now. Not again.

 

Though, before I reached Rosie, he stepped into my path.

 

“Get out of my way,” I stormed, my hands still. She sat only two paces behind him, but it was still too far.

 

“Why should I do that?” he spat in response, stepping closer to me. Not a question, but a statement. I met his glare in response, my chest inches from his. His jaw was wide and stubble-ridden, pulled into a twisted grimace. Emotion pooled in his eyes - not regret, but steeping rage. Here I had nothing to hide behind, but neither did he.

 

So I edged my chin upwards, willing light and fury into my glare. And, eyes locked, I slowly extended a hand towards the fridge.

 

“Come here, sweets,” I said, half instruction, half plea. 

 

‘ _ She would come, she had to come. I had to keep believing that she would come.’ _

 

“Please,” I choked, my voice breaking. My voice and soul and  _ being  _ falling through the ground beneath my feet. My gaze did not stray from his face.

 

_ Please. _

 

Suddenly, I felt a soft hand meet mine. Fragile fingers curled around my palm, and I wrapped my fingers around them in return. For a moment were suspended - just there, just us - as the moonlight glistened through the window and the tattered box of takeout dragged against the hardwood floor.

 

And we were gone. I swept her into my arms in a single, fluid motion, and spun towards the doorway. My strides were long, purposeful. Certain. We were moving towards the street, to somewhere,  _ anywhere _ else.

 

Three steps. Two steps. One step.

 

The voice that rose from behind me was calm, though edged.

 

He breathed deeply. “You take one step out of this house, and I swear to God you’ll never come back in.” A threat.

 

The statement hung on a tightrope bound between us, tight and slanted. And I chose my words very carefully when I spat a response.

 

_ “Watch me. _ ”

 

I ripped through the doorframe, thundering into the street, clutching to the bundle of tulle and bone that sat limp in my arms with whatever energy I had left. The path ahead glowed in the streetlight as my feet tore down the sidewalk, towards the badlands. East.

 

I was too late before. I wouldn’t be too late again. I didn’t care. Not anymore.

  
  


_ My father was not a not a bad man. _


	3. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a complex feeling, to love another so completely. Because you’re body is only built for one heart, but you try to make room for another. You will hollow out your chest, you will break your back, you will do anything and everything to save them from the cruelty of the outside world. But you can’t, not always, not all the time. And then you must feel the ache of the two hearts that reside in your chest, because you are willing to hurt on their behalf.

**_October 22nd, 2016. Wayne, AB, Canada. 8 Jewell Street Field._ **

 

Slivers of sunbeams began to crawl over the horizon, lazily inching towards the open skies above. The enduring remains of starlight glittered through the impending daybreak, speckling the cerulean canvas between sheer ivory clouds that twirled above, as if placed by the ruffled precision of an Expressionist's brush. Finches and Nuthatches dipped and rose below, twirling and chirping facilely in the gaps between stars and billows, their melodies rippling through the speargrass and perennial rye in which we laid.

 

Rosie’s dozing head pressed against my chest, her shallow breaths sounding through the quiet rustle of wind passing through the field. 

 

The knotted strands of a paper birch climbed overhead, its white bark dirt-stricken and peeling, to provide a scattered shade from the reaching coils of dawn. The verdure wisps of the meadow scaled the base of it’s trunk, and I extended an arm to run my fingers through the overgrown grass.

 

It was damp and cool in the morning air, yet uneven and disorderly to match the surrounding landscape. The tussocks weaved and intertwined in a viridescent haze, each tuft mingling with others in a hypnotic sway. 

 

Though, among the tangles of the field, a flower grew.

 

From between the patchy clusters of grass and dew, a single wildrose extended upwards, outwards, towards the sky and the birds and the stars above our heads. It’s stem was thin and frail and breakable, yet its blazing violet petals were abloom in vigour. 

 

I plucked it from the soil, twirling it between my fingers. Forever resisting, forever enduring. Drowning in a sea miles from shoreline, but refusing to drown. They say it will get easier, which seemed doubtful. But I suppose one would only find out if they managed to remain.

 

Beside me, Rosie shifted against my stomach.

 

I looked down to see her eyelids flutter open, her face soft and gleaming, the delicate sapphire of her irises glowing in the aurora. A smile dragged across muddied cheeks, and I returned the grin.

 

“Morning, sweets,” I whispered, drawing my fingers through her hair. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Okay,” she responded, glancing away, into the surrounding plains. “I’m okay.” Something warm glowed in my chest, and I held her a little tighter.

 

“I have something for you,” I sang, the notes lilting out of my mouth as I held up the flower-containing fist. 

 

Her eyes glittered once more as her gaze returned to me, trailing down my face and towards the gift. Wordlessly, she placed her hand on mine and delicately uncurled my fingers to reveal the plush petals, the smooth stem. Her lips parted softly as she moved to touch the wildrose, before abruptly pulling away. Her stare rose to meet mine.

 

My smile tugged further along my cheeks in response. I extended my hand wrapped around the flower towards her face, using my knuckles to draw back her curls, and slid it into her hair.

 

She looked positively  _ stunning _ .

 

Still, as I moved away, hesitance flashed across her face. She breathed deeply, slowly, the oxygen shaking out of her lungs. “Everything _ is _ gonna be okay, right?”

 

I breathed.

 

It’s a complex feeling, to love another so completely. Because you’re body is only built for one heart, but you try to make room for another. You will hollow out your chest, you will break your back, you will do anything and everything to save them from the cruelty of the outside world. But you can’t, not always, not all the time. And then you must feel the ache of the two hearts that reside in your chest, because you are willing to hurt on their behalf.

 

“Always,” I whispered, the word rounded in the space between us. It was not a lie.

 

We would persist. The sun would still rise, the flowers would still bloom, and our hearts would keep beating. So I would find a way, I would always find a way, because that was our only option.

 

But for now we simply laid, intertwined in the grass. Her head in the crook of my neck, strands of tangled hair falling into each other's eyes. No words between us, just our exhalations drifting through the morning air. As if it was always just supposed to be the two of us. 

  
  


Home was not the same for us, but it was enough.

 

It was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I hope you liked that one!! It was an assignment, but something I spent AGES on. It was initially meant to be about 1500 words, but, uh - well. I guess not.
> 
> The town they're in, Drumheller, Alberta, is quite lovely by the way. I've been before. Quaint little oil town that seems more like one big suburb, just like everywhere else in Alberta. That's actually part of why I set it there - you know, because I'm a lazy asshole. What's new?


End file.
